From the archive: Dietrich Fischer-Diskau

A guest post from Jeremy Wilson, archivist to the Dartington International Summer School of Music.

Browsing through past programmes it is striking to see the number of top-flight artists who have taught and performed over the years at the Summer School. Colin Davis, Simon Rattle, Elliott Carter, Tom Ades, Alfred Brendel, Daniel Barenboim and so on. What is easy to forget is that almost all of these came early in their careers, before they became big names.

The artistic directors, William Glock, Peter Maxwell Davies, Gavin Henderson and John Woolrich have all been masterly at recognising potential stars.

Dietrich Fischer-Diskau
1925-2012

Dietrich Fischer-Diskau came to the Summer School in 1953 – the year that it moved from Bryanston to Dartington. He was only 28, had given his first recital only four years earlier, and his first commercial recording only two years earlier. He gave two recitals, accompanied by William Glock, one of Beethoven lieder and the other of Schubert’s Winterreise.

As evidence of how little known he was in the country, concert tickets were selling so badly that Peter Cox, the arts administrator of Dartington Hall, had to circulate the local music society explaining that Fischer-Diskau was someone special. This appeal improved the attendance at the first recital, following which the word got round, so that for the performance of Winterreise we had to put out extra chairs wherever we could.

This performance was extraordinarily moving. Fischer-Diskau’s voice was light for a baritone, much more so than in later years, but extremely flexible. He stood very still, only his face moving, and one hardly needed the translation to understand the emotions being expressed. When he came to the last song, Der Leiermann, ‘the lonely organ grinder with his frozen fingers’, his face and his voice became utterly expressionless, hypnotically conveying the terrifying hopelessness of the end.

There was fully ten seconds of silence before any applause started.

This was the last concert of the first year of the Summer School at Dartington.

A Night at the Circus

In a busy week in the South of England I managed to miss the Australian Chamber Orchestra’s concert at the Cadogan Hall, but I wasn’t too surprised to see that they got a rave review. Dead good band.

What I did get to was The Saturday Book, the 2012 show from Giffords Circus. It was a gorgeous summer’s evening on the common just above the ridiculously picturesque town of Marlborough, and there were little girls and boys running around with the sun in their hair and dusty bare feet. I suspect it was just the kind of scene Nell Gifford was thinking of when she dreamt up her traditional country circus.

We were ushered in by ladies in feathered head-dresses and Folies Bergeresque corsets. The big top was cosy, with a circus ring policed by an antique PC Plod complete with moustache and truncheon. The band dress code continued the cabaret theme, with an eccentric mix of stockings, garters and striped corsetry for the women, and hats for the men.

Clowning around on horses

The show was an equally eccentric mix – music, song and dance, some well-worn pratfalls and a couple of excellent acrobat routines. There was a miniature talking pony (who couldn’t speak on the night I was there because he was – wait for it, wait for it – a little hoarse…) Ponymad Alex adored the big cob horses with backs like coffee tables, who cantered neatly around the tiny ring while people vaulted and bounced and balanced. Jester the dog joined in with ‘How much is that doggy in the window?’ (WOOF WOOF…) and Brian the Goose made a brief but memorable appearance.

Some acts were beyond eccentric. Nancy Trotter, the Pre-Raphaelite Girl, and her troupe of doves (Jupiter, Sybilla, Marie Anne, Antioch, Ray of Star, Greg, Moona, Pooch, Petroch and Peter) was quite, quite potty, a sort of emo-Edwardian interpretative dancer who also sang the Barcarolle from Tales of Hoffmann (in duet with the trumpet player) in a low moan. Meanwhile the Godfathers, a four man acrobatic act from the Ukraine, were a highly satisfactory mixture of strong and agile and easy on the eye. Pat Bradford’s tap dancing – on hands and feet – was joyous and Tweedy the Clown did pretty much everything, including make us laugh.

Best of all, for me, was the band. Everyone seemed to play at least three instruments, and sing, and dance (and tightrope walk, and ride horses…) It was lovely to see loopy Nancy playing the French horn, and the French tightrope walker tucking into the trombone, while the usherettes also pulled out violins on occasion. And, I was assured, come nightfall they’d all be donning hard hats and high-viz vests to pull the whole shebang down, to get on the road to Devizes.

Many a young kid dreams of running away to join the circus. Nell Gifford really did. Now she’s made her own dream circus which brings together those very English traditions of music hall, panto and fairground curiosities. For the adults, the air feels heady with nostalgia for some fantastical past where Enid Blyton and Jane Austen wave to Sherlock Holmes in the street. For the kids, it’s strange and wonderful.

I’m so glad we went.

From the archive: behind closed doors

A guest post from Jeremy Wilson, archivist to Dartington International Summer School

Being a Trog gives particular insights into the character and personality of artists, never more so than in the green room. Before going on stage some are quiet and withdrawn, some calm and relaxed, while others are unnaturally boisterous.

After the performance their behaviour may be even more revealing. When the violinist Henryk Scherying came off after a particularly long recital the Trog, offering him a glass, said, “you must feel tired after that…” The arrogant Szerying replied, “Does a High Priest feel tired after saying mass?”

A program from 1961. (Dad has all of them).

Coming off the platform for some it is elation, some ‘glad it’s over,’ other quietly content. One evening when a Trog commented on the beautiful encore that Paul Tortelier had just played he replied, “Ah oui. Mais comme l’amour c’est trop court.”

After a performance people can be quite angry with themselves or others. Quite often quartets or duos would come off arguing. The singer Mary Thomas, having performed a lesser composer’s imitation of John Cage’s Aria, stormed into the green room with a black face, hurled the score across the room – “RUBBISH” – then turned round with the sweetest smile on her face and went out to receive her applause.

Then there is the unpredictable. One day, in the early years at Bryanston, Elizabeth Schumann was waiting to go on stage to give a lecture and I, aged 19, was her attendant Trog. The previous lecture, John Clements speaking on the Chorus in Opera, was concluding with a record of the waltz from Gounod’s Faust. “Ah, Wunderbar!” cried Schumann, as she grabbed hold of me and waltzed all round the room with me. I subsequently begged that disc off John Clements and still have it to this day.

The Best Present

It all started about a year ago. My brother, organised and thoughtful as ever, emailed me looking for suggestions for our father’s 80th birthday.

Bassoonist’s son in Dartington Hall Gardens

After listening politely to my hopeless ideas, he said, “Shouldn’t we get someone to write a piece of music?” Not only that, but he gave John Woolrich a call and the next thing I know, the Dartington brochure comes out with a concert including a new work by Gordon Crosse dedicated to Jeremy Wilson, archivist to the Summer School. Which is how I came to be in the Dartington Hall Gardens on a beautiful summer’s afternoon this August.

I say it started a year ago. It actually started way back in 1951, when my father, a student at Bryanston School, got involved in one of Europe’s post-war cultural rebuilding efforts, a summer school of music run by William Glock. The summer school moved to Dartington Hall in 1953 and has been there ever since, and my father has been a constant presence.

He’s been an audience member, a trog*, a member of the management council and, now, archivist. His collection of photos, programs, the ‘daily’ and the ‘weekly’ are a real treasure trove. His memories are even richer. Moving harpsichords for George Malcolm, defending the Steinway in the Great Hall from being ‘prepared’, waltzing with Elizabeth Schumann and in later years, propping up the bar with Peter Sculthorpe and Wilfrid Mellers, three surprisingly non-grumpy old men of music. This year, even at the age of 80, he was still much in demand. (Good bassoonists are always hard to come by).

His involvement with Dartington Summer School has been the foundation of my musical life. My whole life, in fact, given that he met my mother at Dartington. My first Summer School was at five months, my last at about 23. So I’ve done 24 summer schools. But my father has done a great many more.

So on 19th August me, my brother, my dad and many summer school attendees heard the premiere of  Ambleside Air, a new work for bassoon, by Gordon Crosse, commissioned by the Summer School in honour of their archivist, Jeremy Wilson. Bassoonist Sarah Burnett performed it twice, brilliantly. Now my father is learning it himself (having typed the manuscript copy into his computer – “don’t like Sibelius, much prefer music publisher…”)

Great joy all round. So if anyone is trying to think of a good present for a friend or relative, ageing or otherwise, please consider commissioning a piece of music. It doesn’t clutter up the house and it keeps on giving.

*A trog (or troglodyte) was George Malcolm’s nickname for the team of stage managers.

Grimes at the Proms II

Crabbing on the jetty

 

It’s not Aldeburgh, but it is an English fishing village and we have a bucket full of tiny crabs. Meanwhile, back in the big smoke Edward Seckerson has written a review o f Friday’s Prom.

Grimes at the Proms

Tonight, Friday 24 August, ENO performs Peter Grimes at the Proms. Edward Gardner conducts, and the cast is largely the same as the 2009 cast for David Alden’s award-winning production. As in 2009, Stuart Skelton takes the title role.

I can’t be there, sadly, but I was lucky enough to be invited to hear the first sitzprobe yesterday. From what I heard, I would urge anyone within 100 miles of South Ken to beg, borrow, steal, bribe, sell your children for a ticket. From a stalls seat in the cavernous hall, empty but for a dozen ENO / BBC worker bees buzzing around with cables and scores and good ears, I got to hear the lynch mob roar and Britten’s unheroic hero soar.

Converting a staged opera production to a concert presentation has its challenges. There’ll be minimal costuming, apparently. No wellies and sou’westers, but everyone has a prop. The chorus have their hymnbooks, Balstrode has a rakish captain’s hat and Mrs Sedley has a Margaret Thatcher handbag which you suspect is heavily armed. Small touches, but just enough to create a veil of theatricality, to make the point that this is a drama, with singers transformed into characters, rather than simply performing wonderful music.

Whatever they’ve done to the Royal Albert Hall acoustics since I was last there (which is, ahem, more than two decades ago), it works. The shattering cry of ‘Peter Grimes!’ hangs in the air, but the words are crystal clear (thank you, everyone for your excellent diction…) Having the orchestra in full view on stage is also a real treat. I’m not going to pass judgement on the singing because it was a working out things kind of rehearsal. It sounded bloody marvellous to me, but I suspect there’ll be much more tonight. And look out for the final scene. Always a devastating moment, but while I was there the staff director (I’m sorry, I don’t know their name) came up with a to use the space which I think will work brilliantly.

Thank you, ENO, Stuart, everyone. Great morning.

Sydney Phil: the other side of the story

The previous post tells the official story. If it’s a bit dry, apologies. I was rattled, and up against a deadline, so I thumped out the review.

Why was I rattled?

Because of the abominable behaviour of the person I was sitting next to.

St Mary’s was packed out for the concert. In fact, half an hour before it began there was a queue stretching back from the door for about 500m (snaking past the pop-up Masterchef restaurant, which had no queue at all…) Mass ran late, so we had to wait. No worries.

I was seated in a pew up close to the action, alongside some other musos. Shortly before the concert was to begin, when the choir were already on stage, a distinguished looking gentleman arrived and sat down next to me. He huffed and shuffled and turned around to greet people, and with each greeting he added a comment. “Awful piece, this one coming up. Might as well go and get a coffee.”

He was referring, of course, to Andrew Ford’s new piece, ‘Waiting for the Barbarians’. 7 minutes of new music. Yikes.

Sadly, he didn’t take his own advice about the coffee, but instead sat down to endure. He did not suffer in silence. Several crunchy chords had him muttering ‘disgusting’, and shaking his head in pseudo disbelief. Then mid work he got up to take his coat off in the nave and slumped back into his seat. After the work finished he continued his commentary, turning to me to drag me into agreement. The only thing that shut him up was the start of the Rachmaninov.

I then spent the rest of the concert trying to think of smart rejoinders and / or respectful responses. What do you say? For a start, it’s common courtesy to listen and not stuff up someone else’s concert experience. But if you really are offended by a work (a pretty inoffensive work but, hey, it’s a free country) what should you do?

Over the years I’ve been variously annoyed / alarmed / bored / irritated / impressed / bowled over by new works. I’ve never yet felt moved to interrupt the performance. Maybe I’m just too polite.

Anyway, that’s why I didn’t particularly enjoy the Sydney Phil concert last Saturday.